I decrease over time, I shrink and shrivel and the world grows larger and farther away. I see as if through spaces in a ramshackle wall, through slants of light that carve the carcass of the day and divey up the spoils, a beggar’s mite, a vagrant’s treasure. It is a cozy, peaceful way of demise and no one dares to darken the door. My time is precious, for it has no end. I wear this dwelling, this moth eaten robe, and the palms of my hands serve well as my crown. And my subjects—the dust and the termite and the creeping mold—bow before my crumbling throne.